Jay Fox - THE WALLS

“Hold on,” he replies as he lights a cigarette of his own.

“It's perfect. He creates entirely for himself and the community at the same time. It's brilliant.”

“Why doesn't he just do murals on the side of buildings, then?”

“Because — thanks — because you need permission to do a mural. Also, your identity is known. Consequently, it becomes his. It's not simply that he's shy. It's that he believes the only possession that should not belong the community is the will — or ego and perhaps even id, sort of — and the body. And while it's obvious that it is his work, that he is responsible for it, he doesn't want his work or the result of his work to become a commodity. Therefore, the work has to be free, and the result of the work must be available to anyone who wishes to view it without cost. True, children can't see his work, but that's not something that he really cared about. He did try, for a long time, to do work in only unisex bathrooms to allow women to see his exhibits, too, but he eventually realized that no one really pays attentions to which bathroom belongs to whom.” He pauses. “Do you know which bathroom a transgendered person is supposed to use? Like, if a person is born a woman, never gets an operation, but identifies himself as a male, should he go into the men's bathroom or the women's bathroom?”

“I really have no idea.”

“You match bathroom signs with hardware, dude,” Scooter says. “How's a guy with a twat supposed to piss in a urinal?”

Laughter.

“I like that rule, Scoot,” Faxo says.

“Just came up with it, man. I was at this one place on Jefferson (turns to me), downtown Detroit (back to Faxo), and this fucking tranny, who was like six-eight — like, Big Fish shit — was just kicking it in the fucking chicks' room. You know, it's like what the fuck? There's a fucking huge chick with a dick just hanging out, acting like everything's fucking cool, but you could tell everyone in there was totally bugging the fuck out.”

“What happened?”

“Fucked if I know.”

“What if she went in the men's room?”

Scooter giggles. “I don't know, man — same type of shit, I guess.”

Faxo smiles and takes a drag from his cigarette. “So what was I saying?”

“About Mordecai's work being communal.”

“Yeah. I don't know if I really have anything else to say about it. The motivation behind the location of his work is anarchistic. I guess that’s it.”

“Do you like all of it?”

“No; but I rarely like everything that an artist does. I wouldn't call myself a critic. I hate critics. How these people manage to think themselves above anything, considering the fact that they create nothing of value, is beyond me. Then again, it is the nature of the parasite to think itself superior to the host.” He pauses for a moment to take another drag. “Look, all I'm saying is that there's a lot of brilliant people out there, but that they don't always reveal their brilliance in their work. Faulkner put out Pylon ; Morrison put out The Bluest Eye …”

“But that was her first book.”

“Still; I'm just saying that an artist's genius doesn't always materialize in everything they create. I mean, DeLillo managed to put out The Body Artist only a few years ago, but I still regard him as one of the best American novelists today. Maybe one of the best novelists, period.”

“You didn't like that book?”

“Did anybody?”

“Well, I didn't think it was terrible.”

“It was such a huge departure from his other work — so much so that it seemed almost disingenuous. If you're going to do something like that, you need to have a stronger show.” He shrugs. “Then again, people tell me that I'm an opinionated prick, so I guess I am sometimes too harsh on things that I don't instantly love.

“Regardless, the pieces that are attributed to Mordy I usually find amusing, even if some of them are horribly banal. I mean, if you're going to denounce conformity and consumerism these days, I'm fairly sure you're not going to say anything unique. If the Gap and Old Navy run commercials that essentially convey the same puerile message, it's time to pick either a new or more specific gripe. It's a lonely world of frightened people: it doesn't get much more succinct than that.”

“Dude, that's totally it,” Scooter says as he grips his forehead. “We need to stop the fear. That's why I'm voting for Obama.” He puts down the bong, which must have a slide piece like a chalice, to tend to his cigarette. “Hey, I'm going to put on that Dave Holland album we were listening to earlier. Is that cool guys?”

Faxo says as he relights his cigarette. “Sure thing, Scoot.”

“How do you two know each other?”

“He’s my cousin.”

“Really?”

“Well, not literally. I mean, we're not related by blood.” A gray-blue fractal grows from his lips.

“Shit, Willis, I've known you longer than anyone besides my fucking mom.”

“How do you know each other?”

“It's a long story. I don't want to go on some long, self-absorbed tangent. I did enough of that in my younger years.”

“Thank you for sparing me. God knows I've heard a lot of those lately.”

“What? Did you meet Pat Shaheen the other night when you were out with Daphne?”

“Yeah,” I laugh. “He’s really something.”

“Tell me about it, man.” He laughs, too. “I met him at the beer garden in Astoria back when I was together with Daphne, and I couldn't believe — well, I couldn't believe how much he drank, for one — but I couldn't believe how much he talked. The guy has to go through a kilo of blow a day.”

There is a pause in conversation. The stereo prevents awkwardness.

“I'm sorry that the jet lag is fucking with my head so much. I'm really having a difficult time remembering Mordy.”

“Well, what does he look like?”

“Dumbo ears,” he laughs. “That's the first thing everyone notices.” He pauses. “I couldn't tell you the color of his eyes. He's got brown hair. The last time I saw him he had it really short. It wasn't that good of a look because he's got a pretty serious widow's peak now, and he's starting to go bald on the crown of his head.” Caesura . “He doesn't wear glasses. He's about your height, maybe your weight. How much do you weigh?”

“One-sixty,” I respond.

“Five-nine?”

“Thereabouts.”

“He doesn't look like you, but, on a superficial level, you two are very similar.”

“So you're saying I got big ears?”

He laughs. “Besides the ears.” He pulls from his cigarette. “That was good, man. But, no,” he begins, “You know, he really doesn't have any features that make him stand out in a crowd. He doesn't have the stereotypical Jewish nose. He just looks like…I don't know. He looks like a white guy, you know?”

“What about his voice?”

“It's deep. He definitely had himself a thick-ass accent, too.”

“What type of clothing did he wear?”

“He had a lot of long-sleeve shirts. Not button-downs. He was a fan of that layered look: short-sleeve on top of long-sleeve. He had a gray hoodie that he used to wear a lot, but I would guess that that thing decomposed a few years ago.” He pauses. “You want to get that?” I pull my phone out of my pocket. Connie. I am in Bushwick, hating the fact that I'm in fucking Bushwick. This terrible place with its stench of grease and garlic and canned-beer backwash, its aesthetic of indifference and decay—; the men screaming in Spanish, the women crying in vowels—; children wailing so hard that their vocal cords tear and shred—; doors slamming. I'll have to deal with Lolita (the epithet for the hipster girl next door, who's into rough sex, but still blushes when she notices my eyes on her bruises that appear every now and again) playing the part of Electra again. She's not in yet, but she will arrive around three or so. Because it's Saturday night, and Saturday night is a waste so long as it is not a precursor to an awkward Sunday morning. I'll hear them talk — murmurings that sound like a squirrel taunting a mastiff. And then I'll hear the foreplay and the verbal salacity, the yelps and the sound of skin smacking skin, the climax and the whimper. I won't get used to this. I won't get used to the humorless faces, the pride so many take in their poverty of hope and spirit. It infests everything around here as if a fine layer of dust. And it is so pervasive, so pervasive that it's accepted as normal. I am the anomaly, the freak who receives askance brows and derisive grins when he reveals his disbelief. At what? At everything about this place. True, Denise would denounce these thoughts as bourgeois, but if it's bourgeois to think it necessary to feel you belong to something, to someone, then I guess I'll always play the part of the parlor socialist as opposed to the militant Trotskyite, eager to sacrifice one's humanity for the sake of…well, humanity. Because I need someone, anyone, who at least shares this one belief, this one belief that it's not normal to think that vapidly consuming luxury items represents the pinnacle of human existence. Is this excommunication or is this exile? I think it's exile. Because everyone lives so far away. And I'm here, here in my full-size bed, which takes up less than a sixth of the room. The twin in the dorm had comprised almost a third. I have been too lazy to install the shelving unit, so books are stacked upon the floor like blocks of skyscrapers, a skyline of academia in silhouette. Cottony snow tumbles down from an amethyst sky; it accumulates upon the windowsill. Some of it falls to floor and instantly turns to water. I need to buy a screen. I should close the window, but it's too hot in here. Always. The radiator hisses like a goddamn viper at random hours of the night. The super is supposed to come up to fix it, but he keeps putting it off for a myriad of bullshit reasons. He tells me to just shut it off myself at the beginning of every conversation, and then feigns revelation when he remembers the fact that the knob is broken, and that I, consequently, cannot turn it off. I can't sleep; I can only stare to the ceiling with its topography of shadows both grainy and distorted. The room is dimly lit by the moonlight radiating off the snow and the clouds. Pearl Jam’s “All or None” plays on repeat because I need a reference point. Jeff and Melissa are bickering in the other room. They don't realize that I can hear them with perfect clarity. She doesn't think he should come in to ask me if I want anything from New Garden, the Chinese place down the block. —He's not hungry, Jeff. She's right. She's right even if I haven't eaten anything since the Boston-bound Fung Wah pulled into a plaza somewhere in northeastern Connecticut a little over twenty-four hours ago.